


Make a wish

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park, Year Zero (Alternate Reality Game)
Genre: AU, Apocalypse, Drugs, M/M, Year Zero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somebody bombs Los Angeles, but all Chester cares about is finding Mike</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make a wish

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Загадай желание](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057601) by [Walter_Kovacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walter_Kovacs/pseuds/Walter_Kovacs)



The drugs make it easier. Barely.

Chester stands at the memorial and scans it, eyes darting from one flyer to the next, hoping to see his face. He might have come back, he might be looking for him. He updates the date on the flyer, the one with Mike’s beaming face on it. Underneath the date he writes “hurry up and come home,” but his hand is shaking so badly it’s almost unreadable.

This is after the bombs. He was out of town when it happened, watching the Oscars from the other side of the country. It was their anniversary, and that’s what hurts more than anything. The movie that was billed to wipe the floor with every other nominee was called Silence. It was a pile of crap, and Chester was sitting on his hotel room bed eating Burger King fries and thinking of Mike. It was their fifth anniversary, Mike had yelled at him as he packed his bag, five fucking years and you’re still willing to pick work over me. Some things never fucking change, he said.

Mike had thought Silence deserved every award for everything ever. He hated spaghetti from a can and only drank diet soda. His favourite TV show was Fresh Prince and he loved The Beastie Boys. The truth is Chester wasn't picking work over Mike, but the wedding planner couldn't fly out to LA because she was pregnant and if he wanted their surprise wedding to happen he had to go. There and then.

It took a little while for the facts to filter through, but when it did Chester went straight to the airport.

“I’m sorry sir,” the girl behind the counter told him, “all flights to California have been cancelled. Haven’t you heard?” she asked, leaning in to whisper, “about the attacks?”

Of course he had, of course. But had she heard about how he had been calling Mike non-stop since the bombs fell? Didn't she know he needed to get there right away? All around him people were watching the news on the big TVs hung from the ceiling and falling to their knees, sobbing. Bodies jerking. They looked like they were all praying. Chester remembers never having felt so hopeless.

This is all after his meeting with the wedding planner, which went smoothly. Her office had no cell phone reception and when he got outside he had six missed calls from Mike, all with their own voice mail. The first one was angry, the second one apologetic, the third one was about the sunrise he had seen that morning and how he couldn't wait for Chester to get home because they should watch it together like they used to.

The forth one was forced, telling him not to worry about having to work. It wasn't such a big deal, Mike said, he didn't know why he had made such a fuss in the first place. Was he looking forward to the Oscars, Mike wanted to know, and didn't he think Silence was amazing?

The fifth one started with a long moment of fuzzy silence, drawn out with nothing but white noise. And then Mike says, “I miss you. I’m sorry. I didn't...my medication ran out last week and I didn't want to tell you...just the Zoloft, I've been taking the rest as normal. So, I guess that’s all I wanted to say.”

And the sixth one, the sixth one is just Mike crying quietly, his voice thick with tears as he says, “I love you.”

After ninety days he gets a text message asking him if he’d like to delete the messages, or to press ‘three’ to store them for a further ninety days.

Chester has been pressing three for a year now. Storing those messages, those little fragments of hope that he clings to.  
He heads home as the sun sets, the stars coming out and burning bright like birthday cake candles. The drugs set his skin on fire, make his clothes hard to stand. His eyes are bleary as he staggers back to their apartment. California is a ghost town. The radiation levels are still, technically, too high for anybody to live there safely. Chester has bruises on his arms, his knees. His hair is falling out. But the drugs make it okay. The drugs and the answering machine messages, the promise of a happily ever after.  
He’ll see Mike again. Soon. He knows it.

He looks up at the stars and when he blinks they go out, one-by-one. They flicker out like candles. And Chester makes a wish.


End file.
